


Catsitting

by SugarFey



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Natasha definitely does not have a cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catsitting

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short fic I threw together after some conversations on tumblr with Allofthefeelings and Crazy4Orcas. It's un-betaed, so any mistakes are my own fault.

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“A week or two, hopefully.” Natasha reaches into a drawer to pull out a sweater and some t-shirts, which she shoves into the duffle bag at her feet.

Clint pushes himself off from the doorframe. “Any chance you’ll tell me where?” he asks, walking across the bedroom. He stops just to the left of her, his arms folded across his chest.

Natasha crouches down to zip the duffle bag closed. “Of course not.”

“Thought as much,” Clint grunts, leaning against the dresser. His arms have tightened and he’s looking down at the carpet rather than at her, exhibiting all the signs of an oncoming sulk.

‘Sulk’ seems to be Clint’s permanent state of being these days, so Natasha decides to ignore it and let him snap out of it himself. “If you’re passing through my neighbourhood, can you put out some food for Liho?”

Clint tilts his head up to look at her. “Liho? You mean your cat?”

“She’s not my cat,” Natasha says crisply, heaving her duffle onto the bed. “I feed her occasionally, that all.”

Behind her, Clint lets out an unexpected chuckle. Natasha faces him and his face is transformed into that self-satisfied smirk she knows well. Without warning he flops down onto the bed, right next to the duffle. “You have a box set up on the landing.”

“Well spotted.”

“There’s a _blanket_ in there, Nat. A blanket in a box for a cat that’s not your cat.” He folds his arms behind his head and grins up at her.

Natasha schools herself into the facial expression that will best help her dignity. “…It’s cold out there.”

Clint gives her a look that says ‘if I had gum in my mouth I’d be snapping it obnoxiously right now.’ “Uh huh.”

“It’s just until the snow stops,” she snaps.

“Of course.” Clint’s grin just keeps growing.

“As soon as it gets warmer, she’s going back out.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose against her oncoming headache. “Clint, can you feed Liho or not?”

The smirk on Clint’s face fades to something less obnoxious, and he pulls himself up to a sitting position next to her. “Sure.”

“Thank you,” she says, pulling out her purse so she can transfer any necessary items to her money belt. This is strictly a no-purse trip. “And don’t buy the cheap food either. I’ll leave some money for it.”

“Because she’s not your cat.”

“Clint.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he raises his hands in defeat. “Sorry. I promise to give expensive food to a cat who has no connection to you at all.”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

* * *

 

Three weeks later she returns from Russia with a broken arm, falls into bed, and doesn’t wake for thirteen hours. It’s dark when she opens her eyes again, and she hauls herself out of bed and pads across to the kitchen without turning on the light, navigating by the faint glow of the streetlamps coming in through the windows. She pours herself a glass of water and drinks it standing over the sink. One glass isn’t enough, so she drinks another and lets the cool water soothe her sandpaper-sore throat. When she returns to her bedroom she finds a light blinking on her phone.

Natasha unlocks the screen and it’s a text message, from Clint. By the time she gets to the last word she’s already dialling him.

At the fourth ring there’s a scuffling on the other end of the line, followed by muffled swearing. “Hello?” Clint says, his voice heavy with sleep.

She doesn’t waste time with greetings. “Are you really asking me if you can bring your dog around for a _play date?_ ”

“Tasha?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she huffs, exasperated. “I got your message.”

“What?” Clint yawns. “You asked me to check in on Liho. I was walking Lucky. They bonded.” Natasha hears the rustle of blankets being pushed back and the sudden echo that comes with being put on speaker. She can picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing a hand through his hair while he rests the other arm on his knee. He gives another long, shuddering yawn before continuing. “Seems cruel to keep them apart now you’re back in town.”

Natasha frowns at her phone, as if he is around to see it. “You set Lucky up with my cat?”

Clint chuckles softly. “See, I knew she was your cat.”

“Shut up, Clint,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh, really, we’re playing that game?” There’s a pause and a gulping sound, like he’s drinking from something. “Nat, why is there cat hair on your bed?”

Natasha lets herself fall back onto her pillow, holding the phone close to her ear. “You took a nap in my bed, didn’t you.” 

Silence. “Stop changing the subject." 

She laughs, feeling the weight in her chest start to lighten after all the fire and the bloodshed over the past weeks. “Just don’t make it a regular thing.”

“Tasha?” Clint says after a moment, and she hears the smile in his voice. “I’m glad you got back safe.”

She tries not to let him hear her return it. “Good night, Clint.”


End file.
